


A Study In Scarlet (1880)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [27]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M, Murder, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Case 20: The Victorians were fascinated by the preternatural, and this case begins with a man whose ghostly visions proved fatal...





	

Upon reading some of the letters that I received from my loyal readers in later years, I received the distinct impression that they thought my detective friend was off solving matters of national import every other day, and that I was being a mean meanie in not sharing these with them. Whilst it is true that there are still some cases that cannot be made public without the most unpleasant diplomatic consequences - both national and Continental - the vast majority of Holmes' work was mundane, which was why we only had three cases in this particular year. There was also the fact that Holmes was still relatively unknown – although I hoped that my small literary efforts might change that.

I had spent that winter both sorting through my friend's copious files – the man kept records of everything, just not in any order – and finding the time in between that and my work to slowly eke out a passable transcription of the “Gloria Scott” Affair. I was unsure as to whether to show it unfinished to the great man himself, and although he knew of my progress (or lack thereof), he did not press to see it. I found choosing the right words incredibly difficult, and more than once I blessed the “Strand” magazine for their understanding as to my failure to keep to anything remotely approaching a schedule. It was the end of November before the story was finished, or at least presentable, and once Holmes had read it, I dispatched it to the magazine, frankly glad to see the back of the thing.

+~+~+

At the end of the first week in December, I returned from my rounds footsore and tired. I had been working in the surgery and taking few visits as of late, but today I had covered a doctor whose patients had been spread the length and breadth of our fair if foggy city, and it had been an effort to get round to them all. Plus, the extra traffic engendered by the approaching Christmas season had slowed me down, and unusually I did not find it in me to share with the rising sense of merriment. Returning to our rooms in Cramer Street, I was overjoyed to find a cup of steaming hot coffee on the table. I imbibed it happily, sighing in contentment.

“That was actually mine”, Holmes said dryly from across the room.

I jumped. I had not noticed him in his high-backed chair.

“I am sorry”, I said. “I did not....”

“But you clearly needed it more than me”, he said, with a small smile. “I shall send down for another one, and you should get yourself out of those wet clothes. Then I can tell you about a new case that I have been offered.”

I nodded in excitement, although I noticed that he did not say that he had actually taken the case. I hurried to my room and removed my wet layers, trading them for a rub-down with a towel and my pyjamas and favourite dressing-gown. By the time I returned to the room, there was another cup of coffee, this time by my fireside chair. I hesitated.

“That one is yours”, Holmes smiled. “Sit down, old friend.”

I frowned at the 'old' – I had barely turned twenty-seven, and was little more than two and a half years older than him, for Heaven's sake! - and sat down to wait for his news. He sipped his coffee, then took a barley-sugar out of a small bag on the table by his own chair, and sucked on it happily.

“A Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley, from Essex, called round today”, he began, “and would like me to investigate preternatural happenings in his home.”

“You investigate the preternatural?” I asked, surprised. There had of course been such an element to our recent Scottish case, but it had been largely incidental to the attempted murder of poor Ceawlin Musgrave.

“I suspect that the cause is of this world in its origin”, Holmes said, “otherwise I would not be interested. But the case has several intriguing aspects to it, and I think as a budding author, it might appeal to your good self.”

I blushed. 

“Pray tell me about it”, I said.

He sat back in his chair, and pressed his long fingers together. 

“Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley owns a large property in Essex, close to the River Thames”, he said. “It is built in the site of an old monastery, Beaumont, a sub-house to the great abbey at Waltham, which was one of the last to fall under Henry the Eighth's axe in the year fifteen hundred and forty.”

I smiled as the warmth from the fire seeping into my bones. History was not really an interest of mine, but I could have listened to Holmes reciting the business directory to hear that rich, deep growl. And there was a lot to be said for a good friend, solid walls and a warm fire, whilst London's cold streets froze beyond our thick curtains.

“The abbey, like so many others, was sold, and eventually a private house was built on the site, using many of the stones from the old building. Everything was swept away except a cloister and a small chapel, onto which the new building was added. The chapel continued in use for the house's new owners.”

“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed, belatedly remembering. “Wriothesley! Was not he connected with Shakespeare in some way?”

Holmes smiled at my enthusiasm.

“The family, like many at the time, split over religion”, he explained. “Mr. Zebediah's ancestors came from a Protestant branch, and were merely cousins to the Earl of Southampton to whom certain of our greatest writer's sonnets were dedicated. That was probably just as well; that particular nobleman's involvement in the Essex Plot nearly brought his close family down with him. I believe Mr. Zebediah's ancestor, foreseeing the disaster, was wise enough to present the Queen with a beautiful new dress shortly before the plot was uncovered. He knew his mark; certain it was that his side of the family escaped unscathed.”

“So why does the descendant of an Elizabethan nobleman need the services of London's greatest consulting detective?” I asked lightly.

Holmes looked at me in amusement. I silently cursed myself, wondering since when had I taken to putting my foot into my mouth like that. Fortunately he refrained from adding to my discomfort, and continued with his story.

“About three weeks ago Mr. Wriothesley, who lives alone, was about to turn in for the night when he heard the sound of a bell outside”, he said. “Upon attaining the window, he observed a figure in red moving from the house to the Chapel, into which it disappeared. He immediately came down and, with his butler's assistance, made his way to the Chapel, only to find it locked and, apparently, undisturbed.”

A figure in red?” I asked, dubiously.

“Beaumont Priory was home to the Scarlet Friars, an order much favoured by the Pope”, Holmes explained. “They were, technically at least, vassals of the French king, not the English one, the English Crown having gifted the estate to King Louis IX some three centuries prior. That saved them in the short term, but when the Valois and the Hapsburgs fell out in 1540, Henry the Eighth seized the opportunity to have the place closed down. Unlike most abbeys, they did not go without a fight, and the last abbot, a Frenchman, was dragged away shouting that his order would one day reclaim what had been taken from them.”

“I did not think that you believed in ghosts”, I observed. Holmes smiled.

“The Beaumont estate is a valuable one, and since he is now past forty, Mr. Wriothesley has been looking to its succession”, he said. “He has a brother, Zachariah, but the two do not get on, so Mr. Zebediah has adopted as his heir a distant cousin, one Master Wilton Farnsworth, although the boy plans to change his surname to that of his adoptive father when he is twenty-one. He is sixteen years old, so cannot inherit as of right for another five years, and Mr. Zebediah is concerned that someone – either his brother, or agents acting for him – is trying to scare him into an early grave, so that they could manage and quite possibly strip the estate in the interim. Our client does have a weak heart.”

I felt an inexplicable pulse of pleasure at his use of 'our' rather than 'my'. 

“I do not see what he expects you to do about it, though”, I said.

“I would conjecture that he hopes I can find some evidence of his brother's perfidy, so that the latter can be persuaded to cease his activities”, Holmes said. “We would probably have to spend a couple of days there, if you have no objection.”

I smiled.

“I would be delighted”, I said.

“Good”, Holmes said, with the hint of a smile. 

+~+~+

The following day we departed from a Fenchurch Street Station in a city still wreathed in the seemingly endless fog, which apparently felt the need to follow us the entire length of our journey on the London, Tilbury & Southend Railway. We finally arrived at Beaumont Road Halt where, with some effort, we procured a cab to take us the rest of the way to the Priory. We passed through the tiny hamlet of Beaumont, which was little more than two rows of cottages on a hill overlooking a Thames I could not see but could definitely (and unfortunately) smell. 

On our arrival at the Priory, we found the place all a-bustle. An officious-looking police constable came out of the front door to wave us away.

“We don't need no more sightseers!” he snapped. 

“Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley was expecting us this morning”, Holmes replied crisply. “Is there a problem, officer?”

The constable eyed my friend up and down.

“Housekeeper said he was expecting some toff from the smoke”, he said rudely. “I suppose you can.....”

“Constable!”

I looked up, relieved to see the familiar bulk of Sergeant Henriksen. The constable looked put out at his arrival, but said nothing.

“Come in, gentlemen”, Henriksen said, ushering us through the door. “Sergeant Pelham is in charge of the case as this is his patch, but the victim asked me here, presumably for much the same reason that he asked you.”

“Victim?” I asked.

“Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley was found dead by his maid at nine o'clock this morning”, Henriksen said gravely.

I was stunned.

“I do not see why he would employ a police sergeant from a central London station when he had his own constabulary to hand”, Holmes said as we entered. Henriksen grinned.

“He came to our station before he called at your place”, he said. “He wanted to check you out, and see if you were all he had been told about.”

“By whom?” Holmes asked, raising his eyebrow.

“His cleaning-lady happened to work at the station where they had the Ricoletti case a few years back”, Henriksen offered. “Small world, eh? She moved here to be nearer her sick sister, and got this joint. When Mr. Zed wanted an investigator, she told him about your solving that case.”

“Small world indeed”, I muttered.

“How did Mr. Zebediah die?” Holmes asked, as we entered the lounge and sat down. A butler brought Henriksen a coffee, and quietly whispered to him that he would fetch two more for us (I noticed my friend's eyes light up at that) before leaving. The sergeant waited until he had gone before speaking.

“Heart-attack”, he said. “Allegedly.”

“You believe otherwise”, Holmes said shrewdly.

“He had a heart condition”, Henriksen said, “I know that, but there's something about the case that seems fishy. That, and I really can't stand his git of a brother!”

+~+~+

I had thought Henriksen a bit harsh in his assessment of Zachariah Wriothesley, but after only a few minutes with the man, I revised that assessment to 'undeservedly generous'. The second Mr. Wriothesley was an unctuous little man, a bald-headed oik just oozing fake sympathy for a brother whose estate he would be responsible for during the next five years. I felt certain that he would take full advantage of that fact, and almost hoped that he was indeed guilty.

“So sad”, he said, wrapping his hands around each other. “Poor, dear Zebediah. But then, he always did have a weak heart. It runs in the family, you know.”

Holmes nodded sympathetically.

“Did he talk to you about the apparition?” he asked.

“I am afraid that I do not really believe in ghosts”, Mr. Wriothesley said, smiling faintly. “And my brother always did have an over-active imagination.”

“Quite”, Holmes said, standing up. “I am sure that Sergeant Henriksen will do everything in his power to bring the investigation to a swift conclusion. It is unfortunate, however, that your late brother chose this particular weekend to call on my services.”

“And what services might those be?” Mr. Wriothesley inquired, squinting at him over his circular spectacles.

“I am a consulting detective, sir.”

I did not imagine it. Our portly host definitely flinched.

“It is just that your brother promised to put us up for one night”, Holmes said, “and it fitted in perfectly in that our landlady is having minor repair work done to our rooms. I had promised her we would not return until late Sunday evening.....”

“Think nothing of it”, Mr. Wriothesley declared. “Of course we shall be delighted to put you up for tonight. It is the least I can do to honour dear Zebediah's memory.”

Holmes bowed.

“Thank you, sir.”

+~+~+

“I did not know there was renovation work being done on our rooms this weekend”, I said later, when we were walking out into the garden.

“There is not”, Holmes said shortly. “But I wanted to look further into this case. Henriksen may have his failings, but he has good instincts. If he suspects foul play, it is most definitely worth investigating.”

We entered the cloister, and walked to the door of the Chapel. When we reached the door, Holmes drew out a huge old key, but did not immediately open it. Instead, he ran his hands up the hinges of the door.

“Interesting”, he muttered.

“What?” I asked. He unlocked the door.

“What do you hear?” he asked, as he pushed it open.

I listened carefully, but could hear nothing. I said so. Holmes shook his head.

“Sometimes there is something in nothing”, he said mysteriously. “This, by the way, is one of only three keys to Chapel, and was always kept in the bedside table of the late Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley. The second is kept by his lawyer, and the third was in the possession of his would-be heir, away at school.”

“So no-one else could have entered the Chapel”, I reasoned.

Holmes looked at me thoughtfully, then ushered me back outside. He gestured to a small side-door next to the Chapel door.

“That is the only other way out”, he said. “A small room, used by the Chapel's own priest in times past. It is currently occupied by the groundsman, whilst his own house undergoes repairs.”

“Did he hear or see anything?” I asked.

“No”, Holmes said. “He was woken up when Mr. Zebediah came down to check out what was happening, but could not help. His room does have a window, but as he sleeps almost right next to the door, no-one could have left the cloister that way without waking him.”

I did not see where Holmes was going with this, but at that moment a cab pulled up outside the main door, and disgorged a small figure, barely visible through the light mist. The constable on duty put an arm around him and led him inside.

“That must be young Wilton Farnsworth”, I said. “Henriksen said he was going to summon the lad back from his school. He does not look much of an lordling to me.”

“A fine homecoming”, Holmes observed. “I should like to speak with the housekeeper, alone if that is all right. Could you take a walk and meet me back here in an hour? You might go and find a shop to buy some toiletries, to make our stay here a little more comfortable.”

I was surprised (and not a little peeved) at being dismissed in this way, but I supposed that he must have had his reasons. I nodded, and walked off into the mist.

+~+~+

“Was your talk with the housekeeper informative?” I asked him in his room later, as I waited for him to change for dinner.

“Look in the drawer by the fire, and see what I found”, he smiled, fiddling with a cuff-link. 

I did, and found a single red satin glove. I did not see at first, but then it struck me.

“You found the priest's clothes!” I exclaimed.

“That is all that remains of them”, he said. 

“But how did you know where to look?” I asked.

He finished dressing, and turned to smile at me.

“I found it in the one place where I knew to look for it”, he said cryptically, before starting for the stairs.

I hated it when he did that!

+~+~+

Dinner was a tense affair, with Mr. Zachariah Wriothesley clearly on poor terms with his new charge. I supposed it had to be difficult, especially for the boy; all that money, but he had to yield control over it to a relative he clearly disliked. I was glad when it was over, and we could retire to our rooms.

Henriksen reappeared the following morning, only to vanish again after a swift conversation with Holmes. When we met in the cloister soon afterwards, I asked him what was afoot.

“Twelve inches”, he said, looking puzzled. I resisted the urge to hit him for doing unto me what I had once done unto him.

“I mean, have there been any developments?” I managed through gritted teeth.

“If Sergeant Henriksen can motivate the local constabulary to co-operate”, he said with a smile, “and if our excellent telegraphic service lives up to my expectations, then I expect to provide you with a murderer by this evening.”

“I thought you said that you knew who it was?” I pointed out.

“My knowing and my being able to prove are two different things”, he said. “English juries have this strange thing where they want evidence before they hang people, for some reason. But if all goes to plan, dinner should be quite interesting.

+~+~+

Henriksen arrived back at just after four o'clock, and I hoped from the copious amount of papers he brought with him that his quest had been successful. He and the local sergeant both sat down to dinner with us, and Holmes mentioned casually that he and I would be departing on the evening train directly afterwards.

“We shall miss you”, Zachariah Wriothesley said insincerely. “Won't we, Wilton?”

The teenager huffed. I smiled to myself. 

“It has been a fascinating case”, Holmes said, helping himself to potatoes. “I understand that modern crime fiction novels are fond of murder disguised as a heart-attack, but in real-life it is surprisingly rare.”

You could have heard a pin drop, We all stared at him.

“Murder?” Zachariah Wriothesley said at last.

“Don't look so surprised”, Holmes chided. “You killed him.”

I thought for a moment that the man was going to follow his brother out of this world by giving up the ghost. 

“That, sir”, he sniffed”, “is a scurrilous and baseless accusation.”

“Hardly baseless, as I can prove it”, Holmes said dryly. “And certainly not scurrilous, as it is true.” He put down the potato bowl and looked around the table. “Pass me the salt please, Nathan.”

“Sure”, the teenager said, and handed it over.

Holmes looked triumphant, and I could see Zachariah Wriothesley putting his head in his hands. Then it struck the boy.

“Who's Nathan?” he said, far too late. Holmes turned to the two sergeants. 

“Gentlemen”, he intoned, “allow me to present Mr. Nathaniel Wriothesley, second son to the gentleman at the far end of this table.”

The boy looked panicked, and stared at his father.

“You fool!” Zachariah Wriothesley ground out. “You bloody fool!”

“It was well-planned”, Holmes explained. “When it became clear that Zebediah Wriothesley was looking for a possible heir, his brother first offered his own eldest son, knowing because of the rift between them that that such an offer would be refused, then did some in-depth 'research' to discover a distant cousin whose parents had died, and was in danger of being dispatched to the workhouse in Southend. The two brothers rarely met, so the victim could not know what the younger son looked like, and some forged documents did the rest. Wilton Farnsworth, alias Nathaniel Wriothesley, duly settled in well to the life of an heir to a great estate, and would in time have probably made a good fist of it.”

“Except, of course, his father was not minded to wait. Knowing that if the boy inherited under-age, then he himself would get control of the estate – and I am sure it would have been well milked if not all but destroyed in those short years – he arranges for the visions of a man crossing the cloisters to the old chapel, the 'ghost' of a Scarlet Friar.”

“How did the 'ghost' disappear?” I asked. 

Holmes turned to me.

“You will remember, Watson, that when I pushed open the Chapel door, I asked you what you heard?”

“But I did not hear anything!” I objected.

“Exactly”, he said. "That door was used once a month for services, yet it did not creak at all. It had been oiled, so that it would open silently. You will also remember that the groundsman's room is directly next to that door. Any loud noise would have risked waking him.”

Holmes stared icily at Zachariah Wriothesley and his son, who had edged round to table to be close to his murderous father.

“On the night of the murder, you made sure that one of the maids took a message to the groundsman. You waited outside the door, then appeared behind her in your costume, just as she was leaving. She screamed and fainted, and you had time to go through the Chapel door and lock it with your son's key. You then slipped out of the back of the chapel and emerged from 'a walk'. Having calmed the maid and reported the matter to your brother, you returned to the Chapel, retrieved your costume, and went to your room. Where you made your sole mistake.”

He produced the single red glove with a flourish.

“You returned to your room, and doubtless prepared to destroy the costume”, Holmes said. “However, someone came to the room unexpectedly, and you had to hastily shove the whole thing into the chest that stands at the foot of the bed. Once they had gone, you retrieved it and burnt it – but by the workings of Providence, one of the red gloves remained in the chest undetected. I think that you will find it hard to explain how a Scarlet Friar's costume glove came to be in your room.”

I noticed that Henriksen had surreptitiously moved to block the door.

“You then went to your brother's room and killed him”, Holmes continued mercilessly, “I would suggest by smothering.”

“But why did the doctor they called not spot that?” I could not help but object.

“Because he was not looking for it”, Holmes explained. “He was not taken to a body and asked, 'how did this man die?'. He was shown Mr. Zebediah's body and asked 'did this man die of a heart-attack?' Knowing the patient had a weak heart, he would have concurred. But”... and the detective's lit up triumphantly, “he did say one damning thing in his report.”

“What?” I asked.

“The victim apparently had a small goose-feather in his mouth, from his own pillow”, Holmes said, looking meaningfully at Zachariah Wriothesley.”

“A jury won't hang me on that!” the man sneered.

Holmes suddenly turned on Nathaniel Wriothesley, who quailed before him.

“Henriksen, Pelham”, he said harshly. “I think you should take young Master Wriothesley in for questioning. And perhaps point out to him what happens to convicted criminals of his tender age in our modern gaols. They are not pleasant places at all.”

The two sergeants, moved to stand either side of the boy, who looked up in alarm, clearly terrified.

“Father?” he quavered.

“Come with us, sonny”, Pelham smiled nastily. “It's going to be a long, long night for the likes of you!”

There is little more to be said. Nathaniel Wriothesley confessed all, and tried to lay the blame fully on his father for his uncle's murder. The boy was sentenced to twelve years in jail, at the end of which time he immediately left the country for parts unknown. His father pleaded innocent, but twelve good men and true did not believe him, and he swung from the gallows before the year was out. Ryland Wriothesley, a real distant cousin, inherited Beaumont Priory, but sold it on immediately rather than live there, and the house passed to new owners, I know not whom. It was sold again and knocked down for a housing development some years later, turning Beaumont into quite a small town.

+~+~+

Christmas that year was quiet (and mercifully free from any further 'preternatural' happenings!), but in the lull before the New Year, I received a letter.

“They wish to publish your story about the 'Gloria Scott'”, Holmes observed.

I did not even ask how he knew. Little surprised me about the man any more.

“They do”, I said. “In six installments in the magazine, starting next month. And they have advanced a most handsome fee.” I looked across at him, suddenly feeling almost shy for some reason. “Half of it is yours, really.”

He smiled at me.

“Thank you, old friend”, he said, “but as you know, I am financially secure. You should add to your savings, for when you meet the future Mrs. Watson.”

He left to go to his room, and I stared after him. He was, of course, right. It was hardly as if the two of us would go on solving cases forever, was it? So why did that thought lie so heavy in my gut?

+~+~+

In our next case, someone takes medical experimentation to a dangerous new level, and a little loving proves deadly!


End file.
